


Dirt on my Name Never

by thievinghippo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: Loyalty not earned changes the entire future of the Inquisition. Or, Fredgar Cadash realizes that maybe he's just a really bad judge of character.
Relationships: Male Cadash/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Dirt on my Name Never

**Author's Note:**

> So it turns out, if you come back to a playthrough of Inquisition after two years and start Trespasser, assuming you've of course finished all the loyalty missions, you can get a really fun surprise when it turns out in fact, you have not.

Dirt on my name never  
My loyalty is forever

\-- Bard

* * *

The statues are moving.

Fredgar looks down at his newly formed stump of an arm and is certain of three things. First, his left arm is missing. Second, he feels no pain. And third, statues of dead people are moving.

_What has Solas done?_

“Fredgar!”

The sound of Cassandra’s voice soothes him at once. Though she must be scared shitless if she’s using his given name in public. Long ago, she declared that outside the two of them, she would always call him _Inquisitor_. Now that she’s Divine and their relationship is an open secret, keeping appearances is more important than ever. Most humans don’t want to think that the Divine of all people is happily romancing a dwarf, even one who considers himself an Andrastian.

That’s when he realizes the statues aren’t actually moving. It’s Cassandra and Vivienne running towards him. And when he sees Cassandra’s face, crowned by that ridiculous golden helm that the Chantry insist she wear, Fredgar’s never loved her as much as he loves her right now. His knight in shining armor.

“My love, what has happened?” Cassandra says as she kneels by his side. Fredgar glances at Vivienne, even in his delirious state, wondering why Cassandra is taking this risk. She scoffs immediately. “Vivienne already knows we’re still together so why bother with the pretense? Now what happened?”

Like a child showing an injury, Fredgar holds out his left arm. What’s left of it, at least. The enormity of his missing arm starts to hit him. He’s an archer. A bloody damn good one and now he can’t even shoot an arrow. How’s he supposed to eat without a knife and fork? Whittle?

“The Anchor is gone?” Vivienne asks, kneeling down next to Cassandra.

She takes his arm and starts to examine it. Healing magic washes over him, for which he is entirely grateful. The last few fights were fucking _brutal_ , being down a man. Cassandra did her best to keep the focus on herself, but without Iron Bull…

_Fuck._

Fredgar also knows that this is not the time to think about betrayal, not when they’re stuck in the Fade. So he pushes the thoughts away and concentrates on the women in front of him. “Yeah, the Anchor is gone, but so is my fucking arm.”

Cassandra cups his cheek so tenderly he needs to look away. This sort of tenderness isn’t something they do in front of _anyone_. They barely do this thing at all. “But you are here. That’s all that matters. Are you in pain?”

As much as he wants to just stay here and recover, the reality quickly catches up with him, now that his mind is clear enough to think. They might be at war with the Qun. And they’re definitely at war with Solas. Fredgar might not have magic, but he’ll figure out a way to end that bastard’s plans, even if he needs to kill him.

_Just like Iron Bull was willing to do for the Qun…_

“Shit,” Fredgar mutters, putting his hand on Cassandra’s shoulder to help himself stand of of the ground. She’s fussing a bit, which he’s got to admit, is kind of sweet and unexpected. But not something they have time for. “Believe it or not, I’m okay. We’ve got to get back. Now.”

“But Inquisitor, what happened?” asks Vivienne.

The question for the ages. But one Fredgar isn’t willing to answer right now. Not when more Qunari could show up or Solas could change his mind and decide to kill him after all.

“Later,” he says, looking for his bow. He might not be able to ever use it again, but it’s _his_. Cassandra had it made for him, back in Haven, even before they were together. She saw him struggle with human-sized bows and had the fletchers make him a dwarf-sized one. Only bow he ever uses. “When we’re safe.”

“Are we safe, though?” Vivienne asks, arching a brow. Of course she’s not willing to let that go. “Is the threat over?”

“For now,” Fredgar says. “The Viddasala is dead.”

Cassandra stands, her hand taking his. First pet names and now public affection? She must have been worried out of her mind. Well, he’ll enjoy it while he can. Soon enough they’ll be back in Orlais, where they have their parts to play as the Inquisitor and the Divine. They’ve become good, too good, at ignoring each other in public.

“Should we backtrack?” Vivienne asks. “We killed most of the qunari we saw.”

“If more live, I do not relish the idea of a fight with just Vivienne—”

“Speak for yourself, my dear. I’m confident the two of us could handle anything thrown in our direction,” Vivienne says. The words sound fearless, but her body language says otherwise. She looks just as exhausted as Cassandra and he does. “I still have some mana left and a potion, if needed.”

“The mirror,” Fredgar says, jerking his chin towards the Eluvian towering before them. If Solas didn’t think it worth it to kill him, Fredgar’s fairly certain the elf would have given them a way back to Orlais. “Pretty sure we can use it.”

Both women nod. “I’ll go first,” Vivienne announces.

“I should,” Cassandra protests, raising her shield.

But Vivienne has already stepped through. Cassandra and Fredgar walk to the mirror hand in hand. Cassandra takes another step forward, but he stops her just before she enters. He lifts her gloved hand to his lips. Silly to be putting on courtly airs in the middle of a battlefield, but little gestures like this mean the world to Cassandra. And she means the world to him.

Her lips curl up slightly into a smile before she turns towards the mirror. “There will be a great deal to talk about,” she says, caressing his cheek, before she disappears.

Fredgar sighs, thinking of Iron Bull and those who cared about him. He thinks of Solas and the future of the Inquisition. He thinks of the entirety of Thedas and of the Fade. May he somehow find the right words.

#

The first thing Fredgar sees after stepping back into Orlais is Dorian’s face.

_Fuck._

“Where is Bull?” Dorian asks at once, his hand at his throat. Dorian isn’t stupid. Dorian knows that Fredgar’s always last for these types of things, making sure everyone gets away safely. But what Dorian doesn’t know is Bull’s betrayal.

For a glorious moment, he wonders if he can lie. If he could say that the Iron Bull died a heroic death saving all their lives. But he’s a shit liar for a dwarf and an even shittier liar for a former Carta member. Always has been. It’s why Varric kicks his ass at Wicked Grace and his relationship with Cassandra is an open secret instead of private, which is what she wanted.

Fredgar’s never quite understood the relationship between Dorian and Bull. He gets the attraction, sure. Before Cassandra, he himself flirted enough with Bull to have the qunari show up in his quarters one day only to have to send him away.

But Dorian is, well, _Dorian_. And now Fredgar needs to tell him that his lover is dead, days after learning about the death of his father.

Fredgar glances to Cassandra, but she’s already stalking out of the storage room to get a healer, no doubt. So he turns to Vivienne, who’s looking at Dorian with a softness he’s seen only rarely over the the last four years.

“I’ll tell him,” she says and Fredgar is reminded of the small bedroom where Duke Bastien died. Maybe she is the best person to tell him.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Vivienne bows her head. Dorian simply looks away, fist covering his mouth. A moment later he says, “Was it a good death, at least?” Fredgar hears the tears in the man’s voice and his heart breaks. If something like this happened with Cassandra…. He can’t even imagine.

When Vivienne doesn’t offer anything else, Fredgar decides it’s time for him to speak. Dorian deserves the truth. The full truth, even if it hurts. “He died as Hissrad, not The Iron Bull.”

There. That should give Dorian enough so they don’t have to tell him that they had to kill him themselves. That Bull died with an arrow sticking out of his neck as Cassandra shoved her golden sword into his gut. Bad enough Fredgar had to live through it. All Fredgar could think as they fought was _I thought we were friends_ over and over in his head.Retelling the story would be even worse.

“Hissrad?” Dorian says, sitting down slowly on the top of a barrel. That alone tells Fredgar how this has affected the man. Dorian Pavus would normally never sit on something as pedantic as a barrel.

Fredgar can only nod. He leans against the wall next to Dorian, exhaustion crashing over him like waves. He’s fucking _tired_ but knows the day as only just begun. The Exalted Council will want answers to their questions. They’ve been fairly patient with the Inquisition, with him, but that patience is a bowstring ready to snap at any moment.

And then he needs to find Krem and the rest of the Chargers. Bad news travels fast, and with the number of guards in the room right now, someone is going to get the news to Krem before Fredgar can himself. Krem deserves better than that. All of the Chargers do.

When did everything go so fucking wrong?

“Where’s your bloody arm?” Dorian asks, looking right at him. Fredgar can only watch as Dorian’s eyes widen. He might as well get used to it. There’s going to be a lot of staring in his future. “Your arm. How in the world are you standing in front of me without your arm?”

Fredgar gives a pointed look at the guards in the room. Inquisition guards, sure. And trusted one, too. Cullen would never assign guard duty this important to new recruits, especially not when there are so many damn spies in their midst.

“Oh, who gives a shit if anyone overhears you,” Dorian says with a shake of his head. “This is not something you will easily be able to hide, Cadash. You are missing your _arm._ ” His voice softens. “Are you in pain?”

“Surprisingly no,” Fredgar says, which is the truth. He’s not sure what Solas did, but whatever it was, it caused him no pain. That, he can be grateful for, at least. Pain from the anchor had almost become a part of him, he had grown so used to it. But now? He feels nothing. An emptiness. He’s fairly certain he can tolerate that more than the pain.

“Could you pretend to be?” Dorian asks and for a moment, Fredgar thinks he’s completely serious. “Fussing over you will keep me from focusing on Bull. At least until we can calmly discuss the situation over a great deal of wine.”

Fredgar gives Dorian a nod. “We’re going to need a barrel of the stuff,” he mutters. So much has gone wrong in the last four days since they’ve arrived at the Winter Palace. It’s impossible to keep track of it all/

“Well, that will be enough for me, but what about you?” Dorian asks. “But you’re not really a wine connoisseur, are you?”

“Give me good old-fashioned dwarven ale any day,” Fredgar says, going to rub his hands together. He could use some of that good old-fashioned dwarven ale right now.

And then he looks down and truly sees what he’s trying to do. How is he supposed to hold Cassandra with only one arm? How is he supposed to help with that ridiculous braid of hers that he’s grown so fond of pinning around her head like a crown? 

“Cadash?”

“Shit, sorry about that. Here I am throwing a pity party for myself when you lost someone you care about,” Fredgar says.

“I can’t think about that right now,” Dorian says, sounding almost lost. “I will go bloody mad and I would prefer to keep all my wits.”

The door opens and Fredgar stands up straight, wondering who is coming to yell at him this time. Everyone seems to want to fucking yell at him during this trip. Most of the time, he probably deserves it, but he certainly doesn’t now.

That’s when he sees Krem. _Shit._

“I passed Cassandra outside. She told me to talk to you,” Krem says, standing tall. Fredgar can tell Krem’s already guessed the truth of what’s happened. Krem knew Bull would be in their fighting party and he’s nowhere to be found. “Where’s the chief?”

Fredgar looks the man in the eye. Krem deserves the truth just as much as Dorian. He’s known Bull longer than any of them. “He’s gone,” Fredgar says quietly. “Killed in the Fade.”

“So demons? His worst nightmare?” Krem asks, closing his eyes. “ _Fuck.”_

“Though the Inquisitor hasn’t said as much, I gather it was a different sort of demon,” Dorian says, sounding older than he had just a day ago. “Or Hissrad, as he should have been known.”

“Hissrad?” Krem asks, his voice slicing the air like steel. “That’s not possible.”

Fredgar sighs, one that goes down to his toes. He’s so very tired. But the real work has just begun. If he thought Corypheus was a problem, that was nothing compared to the problem that Solas - fucking _Fen’Harel -_ will be.

“The Viddasala said jump and Bull asked how high,” Fredgar says. Please let that be enough. Please don’t make them tell them that the Inquisition killed Bull, his friend.

But was it a friendship? They drank together, sure. They joked and fought together. But if Bull has hiding his true self the entire time, was that friendship? At least with Thom Rainier, the truth eventually came out. Apologies were made and accepted and they all moved on. Rainier also didn’t try to kill him and everything he holds dear. Bit of a difference there.

Fredgar watches as Krem closes his eyes tight before turning around so that no one can see his face. “I always knew he followed the qun, but I guessed I thought, well, I hoped, that if he had to choose…”

“He’d choose us,” Dorian says softly, placing his hand on Krem’s shoulder. “I made the same assumption.”

Krem takes a deep breath then turns around, knocking Dorian’s hand away. “Is there a body?”

Fredgar shakes his head. “Not that we can get to,” he says. “The qunari no longer have control of these Eluvians. And I don’t trust the person who does.”

Dorian looks at him sharply then. But this is not the place of that conversation. He’ll talk about Bull in front of Inquisition guards, but not Solas. He’ll need to be craftier than he’s ever been in his life to deal with Solas. Later. _Later._ Fredgar pointedly glances towards the guards and Dorian’s shoulders sag, so slight that he wonders if he’s imagined it.

“Is it utterly cliche if I say you need to be strong for the sake of the Chargers?” Dorian asks Krem.

“We’re mercenaries, Pavus,” Krem says, kicking the ground with his boot. “Grieving for friends is like breathing. You get used to it after a while.”

The words sound tough, but Fredgar hears the shattered glass behind them. He wants to tell Krem that he knows this is different, that losing Bull isn’t the same as losing Rocky or Stitches, but the last thing he wants to do is insult Krem’s pride. “Do you want me to tell the rest of the Chargers?” he asks instead. That’s something he can do, not quite a gift, more of an offering.

Krem shakes his head. “I’ll do it,” he says quietly. “It’ll come best from me.”

“Do you want me there?” Fredgar asks.

He’s only spent a little time with the Chargers over the years. There were times when they reminded him so much of his Carta days, his chest ached, a persistent knot that took more time than he would like to disappear. But the assassination attempt after Valamar helped end that pretty quick. He’s still got the scar from that battle.

“No offense, Inquisitor, but I’ll handle this one on my own,” Krem says. “I should go. This will spread quick.”

Krem walks towards the door and just as he reaches it, Fredgar finds he needs to say one thing more. “Krem?” Krem stays silent but tilts his head Fredgar’s way. “I’m sorry.”

That’s enough to get Krem to turn around again. Their eyes meet and Fredgar can see the pain there, more than he’ll ever reveal. “Me, too.”

#

Fredgar should have said yes to the valet.

Anything would be better than this, than having Cullen of all people helping him dress. What he wants is Cassandra, but she’s already in the meeting, buttoned-up and untouchable right now. And Fredgar needs to get there and quick.

But Josephine insisted that he wear the Inquisition uniform instead of his armor. And the thought of having to deal with all those buttons and buckles when he only lost his arm less than six hours ago is unfathomable. Josephine offered to find a valet, apparently there are plenty just roaming the halls of the Winter Palace, but Cullen volunteered, and Fredgar couldn’t think of a reason to say no, so here they are.

“So have you decided what’s to be done?” Cullen asks as he buttons up the coat. Red is not Fredgar’s color, at all, but at least it looked good on Cassandra. He thinks back wistfully to the dance they shared on the balcony how many years ago. Before she was Divine and everything changed.

He shouldn’t have taken those moments for granted. He prays he never will again.

“Something will come to me,” Fredgar mutters.

He’s got a history of pulling things out of his ass at just the right time. Hopefully today will be the same. Because what can be done? As far as Fredgar’s concerned, Solas is already a bigger problem that Corypheus, even with the Red Templars at his back. Solas is insidious, carefully crafting every move. _I had plans_. Yeah, and the first one worked out so well, didn’t it?

But how can Fredgar use the forces of the Inquisition to their best advantage? Clearly leaving things as they are will not suffice. Orlais and Ferelden will never agree to that. And as far as he’s concerned, disbanding the Inquisition isn’t an option. How will they fight Solas if there’s nothing left?

Cullen clears his throat, in that aggravating way of his, the one where he obviously has something to say and almost waiting for permission to say it. Fredgar stills and waits for him to spit the words out. Just when he’s about to ask, Cullen says, “Inquisitor, I know you and I have never quite seen eye to eye…”

The fact that Fredgar doesn’t burst out laughing is a triumph, in his opinion. Eye to eye? A former Carta member and a former Templar? Those were some of the Carta’s best clients back in the day. No, what Fredgar’s issue is that he never understood how Cullen got the top job in the first place. A Templar doesn’t exactly plan troop movements or need to know war strategy. If it wasn’t for Rainier masquerading as Blackwall back then, discreetly offering Cullen advice, who knows where they would have been?

Granted, part of that was Cassandra’s fault, since she’s the one who put Cullen in that spot, so maybe he should just let bygones be bygones.

“If you have something to say, I’m willing to listen,” Fredgar says and he can’t be much fairer than that.

“Just the boots now,” Cullen says, kneeling down and grabbing the soft leather boots. As Fredgar steps into one, Cullen adds, “There’s still work to be done.”

And there’s the crux of everything. There’s so much work to be done. But how exactly will they do it without the rest of the continent breathing down their necks?

“Agreed,” Fredgar says with a sigh. He’s been doing that a lot today, sighing. Somehow, he doesn’t think that’s going to stop anytime soon. “Like I said, I’ll think of something.”

“Whatever you think of, just know, I’m with you,” Cullen says as he stands.

Fredgar looks down at his feet. He’ll need to get new shoes, something he can slip on easily without laces or buckles. But this really isn’t the time or place to be worrying about his sartorial choices. So he focuses on what Cullen just said and finds that it actually helps a bit. Good to know that not everyone will dismiss him out of hand.

“Thanks, Rutherford,” Fredgar says, stepping back. His eyes fall on the tome that started his journey as Inquisitor so long ago. The book is practically as big as he is, and he’s not quite sure he can walk it all the way to the meeting room with only one hand. But it’s _exactly_ the sort of statement he wants.

To remind the world that the Inquisition is more than just a charter; it’s sanctioned by the Chantry itself.

“I think you’re ready as you’ll ever be in these blasted outfits,” Cullen says, stretching out the collar just slightly on his own uniform. “Good luck in there.”

Fredgar nods and walks over to the tome, picking it up with one hand. “Guess it’s time for me to make my entrance.”

Without another look back, Fredgar opens the door with his hip, and walks into the hallway. With the meeting in just about to begin, he expects the corridor to be empty, with only a servant or two in sight.

What he doesn’t expect, are the entirety of the Chargers, minus Krem, waiting for him.

_Shit._ He’s not sure what to do here. He doesn’t know what Krem told them or how they reacted or anything. Why didn’t he insist on being there when Krem told them all? Well, there’s only one thing he can think of doing, so he might as well get it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” Fredgar says and he means the words. Means them more than anything. He hasn’t quite processed everything that’s happened over the last few days. He _especially_ hasn’t processed what happened to his arm. But Bull? That’s going to take a lot more time than he has here in Orlais.

His words seems to knock some of the fight out of them, though Fredgar tries to keep an eye on Grim, who looks completely distraught.

“Sorry doesn’t bring him back,” Skinner says as she twirls her dagger.

Instinctively, Fredgar knows the Chargers aren’t gonna kill him. At least not here in the Winter Palace. Now once they get back to Skyhold, that’s a different story. But will they even bother to go to Skyhold? They could easily end their contract with the Inquisition if they’re pissed off enough and find new clients. Fredgar tries to picture The Hero’s Rest without the Chargers and has a hard time doing so.

A decision needs to be made. There’s a room full of people waiting for him right now. But there are friends - and yes, he would consider the Chargers his friends - in front of him that need some sort of closure. Closure that can only come from him. And a hallway where anyone can overhear them is most certainly not the place for this conversation.

“Follow me,” he says as he pivots and heads right back to his room.

Fredgar stops in front of the door. Pushing it open isn’t an option this time and his one hand is full. His eyes close, this is not what he needs, not now. He tries to find the words to ask someone to open the door and they simply don’t leave his mouth.

Stitches is the one who finally helps, cutting in front of Fredgar and opening the door. The door opens and Cullen is standing right there, clearly on the way out. “Inquisitor?” he asks, sounding wary. Which makes sense. Fredgar is surrounded by half a dozen grieving mercenaries right now.

“We’re fine, Rutherford,” Fredgar says, trying to sound casual as he walks into his room, followed by the Chargers. “I’m just going to answer a couple of questions.”

“You do realized the entire Exalted Council is waiting for you?” Cullen asks.

Fredgar needs to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Of _course_ he knows. He also knows how to balance his priorities and right now, he’s chosen the Chargers, something that Bull didn’t do himself. The guilt tugs at his stomach. There had to be something, anything he could have done to keep Bull from choosing the wrong side. Well, he’ll have plenty of time to think about that later. Right now he needs to concentrate on the Chargers.

“I won’t be long,” Fredgar says with a nod.

Cullen takes a breath but then nods right back and leaves the room.

The tome is getting heavy, but he’ll be damned if he shows any sort of weakness in front of the Chargers. “So what did Krem tell you?” he asks. The last thing he wants to do is contradict something that their new leader told them.

“That Bull turned on you,” Rocky says, not looking Fredgar in the eye. “The qunari told him to fight you and he agreed.”

What more is there to say? “That’s what happened,” Fredgar says. His voice sounds old, older than he remembers. Shit, maybe he is getting old. “I don’t know why he agreed. He could have fought them with us. But he didn’t.”

Dalish lets out a something that sounds like a combination of a sob and a laugh, covering her face with her hands. “And you fought him?”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Fredgar snaps. The moment the fight started, Bull went after Cassandra, probably knowing it would piss off Fredgar the most. Tactically, if Bull was thinking straight, he would have fought Vivienne and tried to keep her from healing anyone. But Bull focused on Cassandra, because for some reason or another, he made things personal.

All Fredgar could do was shoot arrow after arrow, hoping one would find it’s mark. But qunari skin is thick and it took a long time to bring Bull down.

“We didn’t want to kill him,” Fredgar says, and to his surprise, there are tears in his eyes. “Fuck, you guys, I loved him in my own way. We fought together for four years. I _trusted_ him. I trusted him even after he told me the truth the very first time I met him.”

“We all knew he was Hissrad,” Stitches says. Stitches sounds angry, which is something Fredgar’s never associated with the man. Over the years, his default setting has been resigned. “Suppose we should have seen this coming.”

Grim grunts. In approval or disagreement, Fredgar will never know. Because he’s really got to cut this short.

“Look, I know you’re hurting. I am, too,” Fredgar says. “But what’s done is done. We just need to choose how to move on.”

Huh. Good words for everything he’s dealing with right now. His mind flickers to Solas but he pushes those thoughts away. _Later._

Skinner still looks angry but with her arms around Dalish’s waist, she doesn’t feel like any sort of threat. For now, at least. “Come on,” she says to the Chargers. “I don’t think there are answers here.”

Answers. What he would give for some himself.

“We can talk more later,” Fredgar promises. The book is slipping from his hand, but he will keep holding it, even if it kills him. “But right now there are a lot of angry people with power that want to yell at me. Who am I to deprive them of that privilege?”

“Better you than us,” Rocky mutters as he starts to head towards the door.

Fredgar waits until they all pass before leaving the room himself. After a quick nod to the Inquisition guard standing outside the room, he starts walking towards the meeting room, his mind whirling.

The Inquisition, like the Chargers, need direction. Disbanding either group just because things have changed will leave the world a poorer place. He thinks of Cassandra, of the mission she originally set out to do so many years ago. And just like that, Fredgar knows what needs to be done.

#

“You know, I’ve never much liked drinking in silence,” Dorian says, swirling the wine in his glass slightly. “So even though I’m sure neither one of you has any idea what to say in this sort of situation, I’m afraid you’re going to have to say something. Anything. Talk about the bloody weather for all I care.”

Fredgar looks over at Krem, who shrugs a shoulder. _Fuck_ , someone needs to say something. When he invited Dorian and Krem to his quarters for a drink, he thought they’d all find common ground. Talk about Bull a bit. Try to find some closure. Instead the three of them are sitting at a small table in complete silence.

“My knee’s a bit achy,” Krem says, staring into his glass of ale like it holds all the answers to the universe. “Usually means we’re going to get some rain tomorrow.”

“Brilliant,” Dorian says. “That is exactly the type of inane banter that can start a conversation. Now I can respond in kind. My amatus’s ankle does… _Venhedis._ ”

As Dorian covers his face with his hands, Fredgar starts to wonder if this was a good idea after all. He liked Bull, sure. But he didn’t even have close to the same level of relationship as these two men beside him.

Racking his brain, Fredgar tries to think of something, _anything_ , to say in response to that. But Krem figures out something instead. “Chief never complained about it all that much, at all. There was one mission, though,” Krem says, letting out a bit of a chuckle. Chuckles are good. Fredgar most certainly likes chuckles. Chuckles might be able to save this disaster of an evening. “Maybe a year before we joined the Inquisition. We just made camp and he takes off his brace, complaining the entire time about how much he was hurting.”

“Let me guess,” Dorian says, his hands now on the wine glass in front of him. That’s certainly better than covering his face. “And then the camp was ambushed.”

Krem nods. “And then the camp was ambushed.” He lets out an actual laugh this time. “Chief spent the entire fight hopping around on one foot, trying not to put any pressure on his ankle. Even then, bastard still killed more of them than any of the Chargers.”

“Sounds exactly right,” Dorian says with half a smile. “I can even picture it.”

Another silence overtakes the table and Fredgar still can’t think of anything to say. Some inspiring leader he’s turning out to be.

Thankfully, it seems like Dorian is willing to take another shot. “I’m not sure I like the idea of the Inquisition turning into playthings for the Divine.”

“It was that or disband completely,” Fredgar says. That’s what it came down to. The Inquisition has no sovereign territory. It has no citizens. Why in the world does it need such a large army? But at least by allying with the Chantry, most of the resources will still be there. Solas isn’t going down without a fight, and it’s going to take everything to stop him. And they will stop him. Somehow.

“Well, at least it gives you a chance to see Cassandra more often,” Krem says.

Fredgar sighs. “Does everyone really know she and I are still together?” he asks. “I’ve been trying really hard to make it seem like things are over between us.”

“Every time you look her way, you are clearly a dwarf smitten,” Dorian says. “I can’t see that ever changing.” He leans back in his chair, and stares off. “You’re lucky to have that sort of certainty in your life.”

Did Dorian have that sort of certainty himself until this morning? Fredgar’s never really pried into their relationship, not when he’s been too busy trying to keep people from prying into his own. But it sounded like he and Bull were serious, from what he could tell.

Fredgar tries to imagine that. To imagine Cassandra turning her back on the Chantry and trying to kill him. It doesn’t seem possible but Dorian probably thought the same thing yesterday. He thinks of Solas, how easily he was able to leave the Inquisition on a quest that will leave all of Thedas in pieces. And of course there’s Rainier, too, with his lies.

More and more it’s looking like Fredgar just isn’t a very good judge of character. He should try to remember that.

“It’s pretty damn cute when you two give each other heart eyes,” Krem says with a laugh.

“I am a former assassin for the Carta. I am the Inquisitor for the mighty Inquisition,” Fredgar says, taking a breath to expand his chest, to take up more space, to try to look _intimidating_. “I am not cute.”

“I’m going to have to agree with Aclassi on this one,” Dorian says. “It’s quite adorable the way you two think you’re fooling anyone.”

Fredgar decides it’s time to change the subject. Anything is better than _this._ “So either of you have anything you want to do before we leave the Winter Palace? Lots to see here in Orlais.”

“I don’t know about you two, but I was supposed to go on a date tonight,” Krem says, sounding somewhat sheepish.

“A romantic rendezvous,” Dorian says, holding up his glass of wine in a salute. “I had no idea and here I thought I was caught up on all of the latest gossip. And who is the lucky person to have captured your attention?”

Fredgar grins at the hint of red appearing on Krem’s face. He already knows exactly who it was supposed to be with. He was standing right there, after all, when Cole used his gifts that afternoon. Oh this is a much better topic of conversation than his thought.

“Maryden,” Krem offers, almost shyly, “you know, from Hero’s rest.”

“The minstrel?” Dorian asks. “While her lyrics are unique, I certainly can’t complain about her voice. Well done, ser.”

Krem takes a sip of his beer, clearly pleased at the attention.

“Enjoy every moment,” Dorian says, sounding wistful as he looks out the window. “Because the next thing you’ll know, she’ll betray you and try to kill your dearest friend.”

Or maybe it’s not a better topic of conversation.

Fredgar’s just about to say something when Dorian closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Forgive me, Aclassi. That was cruel,” Dorian says.

“More wine?” Krem asks, picking up the bottle on the table.

“Always,” Dorian says, holding out his glass. Fredgar lets out his breath, knowing Dorian’s been forgiven.

As Krem pours the wine, he asks, “I just wonder when things changed.”

“What do you mean?” Fredgar asks.

“Why now? Chief never seemed to like the Qun all that much. Always thought he preferred the Chargers,” Krem says. He looks over at Fredgar. “And did I hear right? It’s not even the actual bloody qunari you all fought. But a splinter group?

“And I always thought he preferred me to the Chargers,” Dorian says, crossing his legs at the knee. “Surely I warranted more consideration than the bloody _qun._ ”

“I just wish I could figure out what happened,” Fredgar admits. He thinks back, trying to remember what could have possibly happened in the last four years to warrant such a betrayal. Though when he thinks on it, was it truly a betrayal? Bull let him know from the start the truth of who he was. In the end, four years of fighting and bleeding together couldn’t outweigh a lifetime of conditioning.

And that’s not Bull’s fault. The blame lies solely on the qun.

Neither Dorian or Krem say anything but Fredgar knows they’re just as curious as him.

“Maybe it had something to do with that mission,” Krem says, breaking the silence. “You remember that mission?”

Fredgar’s eyes close, just for a moment. There have been so many fucking missions. His damn life is a mission these days. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Krem. I’ve had too much to drink to really remember anything right now.”

Dorian snorts. “And you call yourself a dwarf. You’ve hardly just begun.”

“My race has absolutely nothing to do with my… Fuck, I can’t think of the right word. I’m a lightweight and everyone in the Inquisition already knows that,” Fredgar says. Which is the truth. He’s never been able to hold down his beer or wine or whatever it is he drinks. Two glasses and he’s done.

He’s also not as drunk as he’s let his companions believe. Neither one of them have realized how long he’s been nursing his current drink. A habit from his Carta days he’s never been able to break.

“Don’t you remember?” Krem asks. “The Ben-Hassrath wanted to go on a mission with the Alliance.”

“Fuck, that’s right. I completely forgot about that,” Fredgar says.

Which is the truth. All of his advisors had concerns at the time, so Fredgar kept putting it off until the fight with Corypheus took center stage. And when that was over, the request for an alliance was long withdrawn.

“I don’t think Bull did,” Dorian says softly. “Even in my semi-drunken stupor I remember. More than once, he complained that we need to get to the Storm Coast.”

“A nice way of saying he was somewhat obsessed with the idea,” Krem says, sounding glum. “He talked about it a lot. Couldn’t understand why the Inquisition wasn’t jumping at the chance.”

Fredgar leans back in his chair. Funny how a mission he can barely recall might have made all the difference to one person. “He never told me any of that,” he says slowly. “Sure, I had a lot on my plate back then, but he could have said _something._ Or asked Josephine at least.”

Dorian wags a finger. “This just goes to show how little you understand about the qun. It would have needed to come from _you_ not one of your advisors. You are the leader of our merry band of misfits, are you not?”

“There were some days I wouldn’t be able to find Orlais on a map if it weren’t for Josephine’s help,” Fredgar says. “No one should have that much power over a person.”

He doesn’t like to think he has that sort of influence over _anyone_. But maybe he does. Rainier flat out told him that he turned himself in because of the Inquisition. Maybe other people felt that way, too. Well, if someone makes a decision because of something Fredgar does or does not do, that’s on them.

“Well, if it helps, you’ve only been a source of good in my life,” Dorian says. He pauses and takes a drink. “But that you already know and I’m loathe to repeat myself.” 

Fredgar leans back in his chair, one hand splayed across his stomach, which is slightly larger than he remembers. There haven’t been too many reasons to fight the last few months and when he’s bored, well, he eats. And his leather armor protested the entire time he was out in the Fade.

Another silence. Fredgar’s content to let this one linger a bit. The evening’s coming to a close and soon he’ll need to decide if he should take the risk and try to meet with Cassandra tonight. He already knows the answer — he’s meeting her if he can — but he likes to pretend he has a choice.

“I wonder if we should change the name?” Krem asks suddenly. “Doesn’t seem right somehow, calling ourselves the Chargers.”

Every so often Fredgar seems to pull just the right words out of his ass. He thinks for a moment, wondering if there’s any chance he could find them now. Taking a sip of his ale, he thinks _here goes nothing_. “Even if the qun won out in the end, that doesn’t change what he built.”

One look at Krem’s face tells Fredgar that he in fact, did not find the right words to say. He’ll blame it on the alcohol.

“Oh keep the bloody name,” Dorian says. “No one knows the truth outside of us and the Chargers. You’re well-known throughout the south. Seems a shame to waste that sort of thing. Change the name and you might as well start over.”

Krem sets his glass down with enough force to shake the bottle of wine on the table. “You’re right, Pavus,” he says. “Any reputation we have was earned by all of us, not just the chief.”

“Exactly,” Fredgar says as he not quite slaps his hand down on the table. “What Dorian said. The Chargers are more than the Iron Bull.”

And he means it. Just like Inquisition is more than just Fredgar or the Chantry is more than Cassandra. The Chargers will be fine. Without Bull, Fredgar will be… fine.

Fredgar just wonders how long it will take before Bull’s name is no longer bitter on his tongue.

#

A knock on his door catches his attention. Only one reason anyone would be knocking this time of night. Well, he supposes there really could be two reasons, but if the world is ending _,_ some other Inquisitor of some other Inquisition can handle it. Thankfully the alcohol left his system fairly quickly after Krem and Dorian left, leaving him with an almost clear head.

He opens the door and Josephine is standing there. Shit. Josephine could mean either reason. “Inquisitor,” she says with a light-hearted air. No emergency then. “You’ll find it’s a nice night for a walk, I believe. Perhaps in that small little courtyard that’s just down the hall.”

“She’s got you doing her dirty work?” Fredgar asks, picking up his light-weight coat from a chair.

“Surely it’s not dirty work to help my friends spend some time together,” Josephine says, sounding amused. “Oh let me help.”

Fredgar gives up trying to put the coat on himself and silently hands it to Josephine. “Gonna take some time to get used to this,” he says quietly.

The coat slips on easily with Josephine’s help and he tries to ignore the way the left arm just dangles. “Less time than you think, my friend. You will adapt before you know it.”

“Thanks,” Fredgar says simply because he can’t think of anything else to say. Platitudes. He hates them but that seems to be what everyone wants to throw at him lately. “For this and for the idea of a walk.”

Josephine simple smiles and heads in the opposite direction. Fredgar gives the guard at his door a quick nod. “Don’t wait up,” he says, stifling a yawn. The last few days are catching up with him and tomorrow is going to be a long, stupid day in a carriage traveling towards Skyhold. At least he’ll probably be able to take a good long nap at some point.

Another Inquisition guard stands at the end of the hall in front of the door to the small courtyard. “If anyone demands to come out here,” Fredgar tells the woman seriously, “you make as much noise as you can when you open the door. Got it?”

“Understood, your Worship,” the woman says far too seriously. “But I’ll do my best to make sure you’re not disturbed.”

“Appreciate it,” Fredgar says as he opens the door. He’s greeted by tall hedges that he can’t see over, but could if he were human. But he’s not, so instead he starts to whistle.

A different whistle greets him and he follows the sound. And there, in the far corner of the courtyard, hidden by bushes and trees, is Cassandra, sitting on a bench. No Divine robes or headdress. Just a simple tunic and leather breeches tucked into her boots. She looks calmer than he’s seen her in a while.

Fredgar sits next to her on the bench and immediately tilts his head up for a kiss. They haven’t been able to touch each other nearly enough this trip. And sex? Not even once. Too many eyes waiting for them to fuck up. He’s not about to ruin this for Cassandra. Not when there are so many things she wants to do for the Chantry.

She must have the same idea, because her kiss is _hungry_. Cassandra always kisses like there’s no tomorrow, but there’s a sense of urgency, of _need_ , he doesn’t think he’s felt before. Even when they celebrated after Corypheus’s defeat, she wasn’t this eager.

His hand slides around her waist and he tries to bring her closer. His kingdom for a bed with a locked door right now. He wants to take his _time_ but of course that’s the only thing they don’t have right now. 

When they finally break apart, they’re both panting. Fredgar rests his brow against her shoulder, waiting for her to speak, assuming she wants to. He doesn’t have much to say and the words he wants? She already knows.

“I am very tired,” Cassandra announces.

Fredgar can’t argue with that. He’s fucking exhausted, but he’ll stay up as long as he can just so he can sit next to the love of his life. Especially considering they’re so close to being parted again. Instead of telling her this, Fredgar presses a kiss into her shoulder.

“I am very tired,” Cassandra repeats. “And for what? To live through yet another war?”

“Cassandra,” Fredgar whispers, loud enough for her to hear. “Don’t think about that now. Think about all you’ve done.”

“I do. I do try to focus on the good I’ve done and will do in this world,” Cassandra says, shaking her head. “But there are times… Times when I think it’s just not fair. For so long, I wanted romance and poetry and love and when those beautiful things are finally in my life, I have to hide them all away.”

“No white wedding for us, that’s for sure,” Fredgar says, squeezing her hand. He would ask Cassandra to marry him in a heartbeat if he thought she would actually accept. “But we’ve talked about this. It’s either this or nothing. And I really don’t like the idea of nothing.”

Her hand cups his cheek, turning his head towards her, before kissing him gently on the lips. “I will not accept nothing.”

“And you’ve got to admit, the sneaking around, the stolen kisses, and the forbidden romance, it’s right out of one of your books,” Fredgar says, hoping to earn himself a smile.

Which he does. “Varric could not have written our tale any better,” she says, standing up. She starts to pace, slow deliberate steps. “I should be furious at Solas and everything he’s done and what he wants to do. But it will be a good reason for us to communicate and perhaps even see each other more often.”

“That, and the Inquisition has agreed to become Divine Victoria’s personal guard,” Fredgar says with a grin. “Surely that’s worth at least a handful of visits.”

He reaches out his hand, hoping to stop Cassandra’s pacing. She’s thinking too much, getting too deep in her own head. That’s for tomorrow, when they’re apart. As far as he’s concerned, she can think as much as she wants tomorrow.

Cassandra takes his hand and stills. He slowly brings her hand to his lips, his eyes not leaving hers. “Perhaps more than a handful of visits,” she says, her cheeks showing a hint of red. She doesn’t blush often, but when she does, he treasures it. “I suppose no one would even think twice if I offered you a private audience.”

“If we do ever manage to make love in the Grand Cathedral,” Fredgar says, wagging his eyebrows, “promise me you’ll leave the hat on?”

The effect is immediate. Cassandra kneels down in front of him, so they are almost face to face. “You are impossible,” she says, before kissing him fiercely.

“That’s not a no,” Fredgar says with a wink after they part.

He expects a scoff or a held-back smile, but instead she turns her head away from him. “I miss you, that is all. Your letters are a comfort—”

“But they’re not the same as waking up in the same bed,” Fredgar says softly. More than a year has passed since the last time they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

“No,” Cassandra says, standing up. “They’re not.”

Fredgar stands as well. “Damn better than the alternative,” he says, thinking of Bull and Dorian.

Perhaps Fredgar did have some influence over Bull’s decision, like Krem suggested. The last thing Fredgar would want is to cause anyone pain like that. But at the end of the day, Bull made his choice. The wrong one, as far as he’s concerned. But still his own damn choice.

Everyone deserves to make their own choice. Like him and Cassandra. They’re choosing to stay together, even though everything is trying to keep them apart. That’s a choice. Because Fredgar’s life would be so less rich without her.

“I should get back to my room,” Cassandra says, and Fredgar doesn’t think it’s his imagination, but she sounds pretty wistful. Something he understands completely. “I’ve already stayed out too long.”

It’s the same for him. While he absolutely trusts that the guard outside his room is above taking a bribe, he doesn’t trust casual passerbys taking a late-night stroll to see if anyone comes in or out of his room. More than once, Fredgar’s been told that gossip about the Inquisitor pays quite well.

He stands on his toes for a kiss and takes the time to enjoy every moment. When their next kiss will be, neither of them know.

“You go out first,” Fredgar says. Even walking out of a garden together at this time of night will cause a stir. “Write me when you get back to the Grand Cathedral?”

“Of course. If I time things right, the courier will beat you to Skyhold,” Cassandra says, a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Something to look forward to,” Fredgar says. Neither one of them are great at writing letters, but sometimes that’s all they have.

“Until next time, my love,” Cassandra says, pressing her hand against his cheek.

He takes it for the invitation it is and brings her fingertips to his lips. “Until next time.”

With a deep breath, Cassandra turns and Fredgar decides to enjoy the view as she walks away. Once she’s out of sight, he sits back down on the bench, looking up into the stars.

His thoughts turn to Solas, to betrayal. Rubbing the stump of his arm, Fredgar wishes things could be different. That he could spend the majority of his time dealing with the transition of the Inquisition.

“You’re a poet and didn’t know it,” Fredgar mutters.

That is what he _should_ do with the days ahead. Become the personal guard of the Divine. Instead, he will have to find a way to fight Solas from the shadows. Fredgar’s been there before, back in his Carta days, when he would wait for hours or even days sometimes before his mark would appear and he could release an arrow meant to kill. Going back to the shadows will be welcoming home a friend.

But he has no doubt, absolutely none, that Solas knows how to fight from the shadows as well. Fredgar decides to feign confidence, right there and then. If he’s uncertain — and how can he not be after Bull turned on him after fighting side by side for so long? — no one will know. Not even Cassandra. Too much weighs on her shoulders as Divine. He will not add to her burden.

So he’ll wait. Fredgar will take his time and find Solas, the most important mark of his life. And if he does his job right?

The son-of-a-bitch will never know what hit him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/thievinghippo) or [tumblr](https://thievinghippo.tumblr.com).


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